Pinch Me
by drunkblaine
Summary: Pinch me, 'cause I'm still asleep. Please, God, tell me that I'm still asleep. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author:**_ drunkblaine

_**Beta: **__RussianBear_

_**Title:**__ Pinch Me_

_**Warnings:**__ Pinch Me belongs to the band Barenaked Ladies and the fanfic was slightly inspired by the song. The story is canon until certain point, but then I changed the whole thing. Also, spoilers for the season one of Sherlock. There's homosexual relationships between characters. All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to BBC. I gain no profit with this._

_**Synopsis:**_ _Pinch me, 'cause I'm still asleep. Please, God, tell me that I'm still asleep._

* * *

><p>"John?" Sherlock called, the despair still light on his voice.<p>

"John?!" each passing second meant more of Sherlock's soul being possessed by anguish and anger.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock opened his eyes, breathing hard and facing the purest darkness. He rose his trembling hand and passed it through his curls, which were soaked in sweat. He didn't remember exactly what had triggered so much panic in his dream, but what he did know is that his whole body was still shaking with the trauma.

A light was turned on, its clarity trespassing the door's veins. Rushed steps were heard and in a matter of seconds they were already next to Holmes' bed.

With no words said, the mattress sank next to Sherlock and there was warm, comforting arms passing through his shoulders. John hugged him as tightly as he could, with his chest pressing against Sherlock's back.

So Holmes just stayed that way. Closed eyes, breathing normalizing and just absorbing John's presence, the one thing that made him feel so good. No one had ever made him feel something so strong — no one had ever stayed long enough for it to happen. Ever

But John had. John Watson, the one who didn't give up on Sherlock, even after he found body parts on the fridge, or after having more than one almost-death experience. John Watson: the one who Sherlock could safely say that he loved.

Although "love" was a difficult conception in Holmes' mind. The love he felt for John wasn't the one that appeared in movies, series and all over the internet. It wasn't in a carnal way, but it certainly wasn't just a friendly love neither.

Sherlock just loves. He doesn't know how to explain this love and he never felt the need to. All that he knows is that he feels good around John; that he smiles more in the presence of the ex-soldier and the simple fact that Watson was there gives Sherlock a reason to live. If such feelings were under the label of "love", Holmes didn't know, he did not care as long as John Watson knew what he felt.

John lay his head to rest against Sherlock's trembling shoulder, feeling the calm coming back to his partner's body and smiled again as he tightened his embrace.

"I love you too, Sherlock." He whispered.

Holmes twisted his lips in a smile that, innocently, he saved only for John. A smile that he had gotten used to give everyday.

Suddenly the heat was gone. The body next to him disappeared almost as fast as it arrived. John's smile no longer lit up the room – neither did Sherlock's – and his hands no longer lay on the detective's shoulders.

Sherlock opened his eyes only to face the cruel, cold reality from which he made so much effort to escape. Once again, he felt the sweat dripping down his face, only now it was mixed with tears. His body began to tremble uncontrollably and, as if it were rehearsed, a light came on outside Holmes' room.

The nightmare was now clear on Sherlock's mind: it repeated itself in front of his eyes like a hologram, like a flashback. Especially because that's what it really was. The bad dreams that took over Sherlock night after night were nothing more than sick memories.

John was static, eyes wide open with fear, though he was clearly trying to disguise the feeling. A coat too big for his body covered him; indifferent to the warm, unusual climate that was established in London. Sherlock felt the air escape his lungs when he saw his friend and he didn't know what to do but to stare into the blonde man's eyes, silently asking for an explanation.

"Evening," John said with an unnatural calm in his voice.

He blinked rapidly, a mute ask for help that he had learned in the army and that, unfortunately, Sherlock didn't recognize — he was too busy immersing himself into panic.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" he continued, his tone sounding even more robotic. "Bet you never saw this coming."

Without really thinking his acts through, Sherlock gave a hesitant step forward, going to John's direction. The latter just held at the edges of his jacket as a response, holding it open so Sherlock could see the bombs attached to John's body. Holmes swore under his breath and stood where he was as a red target shone on Watson's chest.

John's hands kept a controlled tremor, but Sherlock could see the fear clouding his brown eyes, his knuckles were almost transparent white as he gripped the coat with much more force than necessary.

"What… would you like me… to make him say… next?" he said slowly – obviously repeating what was being said to him at that exact moment. "Gottle o' gear."

A sudden wave of courage washed over Sherlock and he started moving, looking in the darkness to try and see the man with the gun. Although he knew he wouldn't be able to spot anyone, he kept looking – anything to distract him from the broken sound of John's voice.

"Gottle o' gear." John repeated, tilting his head as the listening device was resting rather uncomfortably on his shoulder. "Gottle o' g-"

"Stop it." Sherlock ordered.

"Nice touch this." The ex-soldier repeated as terror dominated his eyes when the detective approached. "The pool… where little Carl died."

Sherlock turned abruptly, his whole focus now on John. The mention of his first case – and the first murder he had witnessed — made him forget about the shooter and walk as close to John as he could. He knew the gun wouldn't be fired just because of his approach.

"I stopped him." John closed his eyes, unable to look Sherlock in the eyes for he was terrified of the sentence he was about to repeat. "I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart." His voice broke when he realized he had declared his own death sentence.

"Who are you?" Holmes kept his controlled posture and went back to scanning the pool, not noticing at first the sound of a door opening.

A tall, skinny man, with a short and impeccable brown hair walked out of the shadows in the back of the room. He wore a fancy, three-piece suit and kept his hands hidden in his social pants' pockets, calmly walking towards Holmes and Watson, seeming to be entirely unaware of all the tension surrounding the men.

When Sherlock faced the man a quick shine of surprise lighted his blue eyes when he recognized the character – but it was quickly disguised in the apprehension of not showing any emotions. Holmes moved quickly, withdrawing a gun from his pocket and pointing it to the new figure.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

Despite the serious expression, Jim's voice sounded happy and that annoyed Sherlock to no end. His high and animated cry reverberated on the tile wall, filling the detective's brain.

"Let him go." Sherlock uttered.

"Yeah. Very nice to meet you, too."

"Let. Him. Go." He whispered dangerously, his fingers tightening around the gun.

"Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle." Moriarty said when he saw the movement of Sherlock's hand. He seemed angry for the first time, his mouth twisting in momentary displeasure.

"This is between you and me, _Moriarty,_" Sherlock stated, the new name playing on his lips. "So let John go."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, _Sherly_!" he stopped right behind Watson, raising a hand to touch the soldier's hips. "_Johnny boy_ here is involved in all that. After all, he's involved with you."

Jim laughed at his own joke and circled John's waist with his arms, resting his head on the man's shoulder and ignoring the mixture of disgust and contempt that took the doctor's face.

"Stay where you are, Sherlock." Moriarty asserted. "And lower this gun, it's worse than useless."

Considering his options, Holmes chose to obey. He lowered his gun to the ground and stopped a few steps away from John. He looked Moriarty in the eyes while the man smiled maniacally at him. Sherlock kept his lips in a thin line, a thousand plans and possibilities crossing his mind – too fast to compute.

Briefly, the genius visited his Mind Palace. Once there, he imaginatively walked from one side to another, trying to control the despair and murmuring to himself. His long and thin fingers threaded on his black locks, pulling them in irritation. Finally, he screamed as loud as he could, unable to find a plan in which John wouldn't get hurt – Moriarty was, nevertheless, truly unpredictable.

He blinked, being brought back to reality. He was still in the same position, his whole body getting tense when he saw Moriarty laying a simple kiss on his boyfriend's cheek.

Suddenly reminded of the main reason of his presence there in the pool, Sherlock took a little black object from his pocket.

"Take it."

"Oh" Moriarty pronounced with a fake surprise, taking the piece from Holmes's hand. "The missile plans."

He observed the pen drive with apparent desire, taking it to his lips for a quick kiss before going back to Sherlock.

"Boring." He threw the plans in the water, deteriorating them and surprising both Holmes and Watson. "I could have got them anywhere."

The two men – hostages – remained still, unsure what to do or say, simply waiting for Moriarty's next move.

"You're a loyal little dog, Sherlock." he laughed quietly. "Betraying your own brother – the British Government – in favor of the life of John Watson."

In a completely unexpected move, John rushed forward, grabbing Moriarty in an act that he believed would stop the man, or at least buy time for the consultant detective.

"Sherlock, run!" he yelled.

"Oh, well." Moriarty said, unlocking the gun. "I've never really enjoyed living, anyway. It's all too predictable, too repetitive. Don't you think so?"

The criminal turned the gun, pressing it firmly against John's abdomen – and against one of the bigger bombs attached to the soldier. Predicting the situation that was about to happen, Watson threw his body to the side, taking Moriarty with him, and pushing Sherlock, hard enough to make him trip and fall into the pool before hearing the last click.

In shock, Holmes felt the water tremble violently, the sound resonating incessantly in the enclosed environment, and a flash taking over the place. A sharp pain ran through the right side of his chest and he could feel his skin open in several places.

Too terrified to move, Sherlock remained submersed, refusing to leave the water and face the scene. However, his lungs – already damaged by the cigarettes – could not take much longer without air, forcing him to swim to the surface.

The water was tinted red. If by his blood, Sherlock couldn't tell. Pieces of cloth floated on the extension of the pool and a scarlet mount was concentrated where once John Watson stood.

Generally, Sherlock would wake up by this part, screaming for John. He would rummage around on the bed he had spent countless nights by John's side and would cry copiously when he found himself alone. Then, the memories would torment him even more, finishing the dream and reminding him of the pain, the solitude and, above all, the denial.

He had left the pool as fast as his body allowed after the traumatising view, running to the exterior of the building, his steps sounding loudly in the corridor. When he collided with the gelid night wind, his legs gave in and he collapsed onto the floor in a fetal and defensive position.

In Sherlock's mind, besides the sound of the shot, there was another being repeated incessantly. _"Nightmare_". Because it was all that had to be. A big, realistic and frightful _nightmare_. John was alive. There _wasn't_ another choice.

He didn't know if he had been there for long, but suddenly a hand touched his shoulder, making him jump in surprise. He felt the heat of a body lowering beside him and a firm grip of long fingers on his cold skin.

"Sherlock?" tenderly whispered a familiar voice. "Sherlock, come on. Let's get out of here."

Against his will, Holmes was forced to get up, assisted by the person he hadn't yet been able to identify. He was guided to an unknown destiny, much like it was done with blind people. Which was, in fact, what Sherlock was at the moment. Not because he had indeed lost his vision, but for he was in such a deep trauma that his powerful brain refused to rise his eyelids.

As they walked, the wind became more violent, cutting the detective's face. He felt the person – a man – pass an arm through his waist and hug him (if protecting Sherlock from the cold or from the event, neither of them knew). And only then Holmes realized he was in the presence of his brother.

"What…" the consulting detective began, pausing to clear his throat, "What happened?"

He was still holding to the mere hope that he had imagined the explosion and that Moriarty had killed only himself, without taking John with him. But having only the tightness of Mycroft's embrace as an answer, he had all the proof he needed that there was no fantasy in his mind.

"Gregory." Mycroft greeted softly. "Take us to my apartment, please."

"I'm sorry, My," Lestrade spoke, "but doesn't he need a doctor?"

"We'll have any medical assistance we need in my flat. Now, please, Gregory."

Sherlock heard the click of a door being opened and his brother sat him on the back seat of a car. Received with a wave of warm air just as the automobile was brought to life, the younger Holmes gathered the courage to open his eyes.

He registered Mycroft sitting by his side, his arms still surrounding his torso. Lestrade periodically stared at him through the rear-view mirror, pity and sympathy overflowing his dark irises. When he looked at the passenger's seat and did not see John Watson there, in his usually relaxed posture and fiddling impatiently with the radio until he found a good enough station, Sherlock closed his eyes again, not wanting to see a world without John.

**-SH-**

_To be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

Two years have passed since John Watson's murder and James Moriarty's suicide.

Sherlock found himself unable to sleep in his own bed. He would rather sleep in the room next door, on the bed that possessed John's smell. Holmes wouldn't leave the four walls unless for the absolutely necessary. He spent the majority of his time laying down, with his nose deep in the pillow on which John rested his head for so many nights. But Sherlock never slept — sleep meant nightmares, memories he did not want to remind. Occasionally, his body insisted on the act, however he never got more than four consecutive hours of sleep without being awakened by the bombs.

Mycroft knew better than no one that he could not let Sherlock live alone. Not only due the most recent trauma, but since they left Ms. Holmes's house. It was why he had so skillfully put Mike Stamford in John's path. It was why, after Watson's passing, he had moved in with Gregory to 221B Baker Street.

"JOHN!"

The older Holmes wake up with a jump. Lestrade, by his side, opened his eyes but found himself too sleepy to move. Sherlock's yell had echoed through all the flat, and Mycroft ran to his little brother's room.

When he got to the source of the screaming, Mycroft immediately sat next to his brother and involved him in a hug, whispering in his ear that "It's alright", and "I'm right here, you're not alone". Realizing Sherlock was still unquiet, Mycroft hold him tighter in the hope to transmit some tranquility — although himself wasn't feeling none.

"… John.", Sherlock mumbled shakily, still half-asleep, "Mycroft… where… John?"

Mycroft made his hold even tighter as an answer, act that had become a sad routine to the brothers. He lowered his head and pressed his face into Sherlock's dark curls, trying to contain his tears. But all he managed was to muffle the sounds he made — and that was compensated by the spasms that took control of his body.

Slowly, Sherlock regained full consciousness. On the moment he realized where he was and with who, he hesitantly lift his arms to return his brother's hug.

It was not typical to the Holmes to demonstrate emotions. The cold, objective and sagacious armor maintained itself for a great portion of their lives, since Mycroft, in the naïve youth of his 15 years, after spending hours locked away in his room, crying, found out that _caring wasn't an advantage_. He told the saying to his brother, who was 5 years old at the time, and, making an effort as to not shed a single tear in front of Sherlock, he completed with a broken voice: _But we will always care about each other, Lockie, no matter what happens._

The younger Holmes coughed, feeling too weak to talk but still trying.

"He… He's not coming back. Is he?"

Mycroft lifted his head, gazing into Sherlock's navy orbs. His eyes lost focus for an instant and, when they got back, they saw a child in front of them. A fragile kid, who looked like he could break at the slightest touch, with brown curled hair, which urgently needed a cut, and big blue eyes that shined with unshed tears.

He felt his brother coil up even more in his lap, Sherlock's hair tickling his chin and making him smile. Suddenly, Sherlock twisted his nose and backed away a few inches.

"You smell like Lestrade", he whispered, his voice still weak.

Mycroft's laugh grew slightly, and he turned his head to face his partner, who was leaning on the door, watching the brothers' interaction since the beginning.

"We sleep together, brother of mine", Mycroft replied, "It is only expect that we have the same smell."

"You don't sleep with Lestrade", Sherlock babbled, sounding at least ten years younger as he pressed his body even more against the politician's robes, "You sleep with me"

"Not in the same way, brother, I can guarantee you;"

Gregory's chuckle, although brief, echoed through the room alongside the consulting detective's sound of disgust.

"Sherlock", Mycroft called, a serious tone back on his voice, "You have to go back to spend your nights alone. I don't mind, honestly, but it's for your own good."

"I didn't sleep alone.", Sherlock said, his voice muffed in his brother's raiment, "I… John slept wit-"

"I know", he interrupted, afraid Sherlock might cry again, "I know, and I will spend this night with you, Lockie, and how many more you need. But we'll have to do something about it."

Sherlock agreed, cozying up more on Mycroft's chest. The latter moved graciously to lay down on the bed that once belonged to John. Gregory went to his husband's side and softly kissed his lips before turning off the lights and leaving to his room.


	3. Chapter 3 (Final)

"Sherlock, you should eat something."

Mycroft looked to his brother through a mirror while he uttered such words, carefully straightening his tie before leaving for work. However, Sherlock ignored him and remained staring the empty plate in front of him. After a few minutes, having gotten bored of watching the china, he raised his head — only to find Mycroft's eyes still analyzing him through the reflex.

"No", the younger Holmes answered.

The politician heavily sighed, turning to his brother once he got his clothes just the way he wanted. He walked to the kitchen, standing right before Gregory, who ate quietly on the counter, and leaned over his husband's body, hugging him and trailing kisses along his face. In the moment he saw Lestrade's lips parting and his eyes shutting in pleasure, Mycroft hold firmly the man's chin and kissed him — taking advantage of the situation to steal the unbitten half of Lestrade's sandwich from his plate.

Mycroft went to where his brother was still sitting and put the food in his dish, voicing only one order:

"Eat."

Ignoring the protests behind him — from both Gregory and Sherlock — Mycroft took his suitcase from the sofa and left the flat to go to work.

— **MH —**

The biting and cold wind cut Sherlock's face. He took the cigarette that rested between his middle and index fingers to his lips, inhaling until he felt his lungs burning and then releasing the smoke, which was rapidly dissipated in the air.

He didn't dare to look down, opting to focus on the scenery in front of him, admiring the sky tinted by a light blue mending to a twilight's orange, the dark clouds afar announcing an incoming storm, and the roofs of the buildings around his — all shorter than the one where he was at the moment.

When he felt a short and acute pain from the almost finished fag burning his fingertips, he let it go, observing as it fell and disappeared in the distance. Sherlock gave a step ahead, stepping in the edifice's edge, and allowed himself a last moment of philosophy.

Mycroft and Lestrade had no idea of where Sherlock was. They both had left to work early, leaving Sherlock alone with the promise that he wouldn't "do anything stupid". However, the act he was about to commit did not fit in the category of "stupid" in Sherlock's humble opinion.

Holmes closed his eyes and let his consciousness wander to his mind palace. A few years back, the place was a huge chamber, empty most times, echoing the answers that Sherlock needed. But right after meeting John Watson, he began to be a part of the scenario, being the only permanent image in the constantly altered landscape.

The memories of all the cases he had faced with John, of all the moments he had had with the man invaded abruptly his mind, with more potency than he could possibly handle. Sherlock bended as he remembered John saying they were best friends. He started breathing heavily when reminded of the day he had declared to the soldier. And the tears escaped from his control as the memory of John's smile between his crying of joy when they kissed for the first time, took control of Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock had tried to get over it. For his parents, for Mycroft, for his own sanity, he had tried to forget. He frequented psychologists and psychiatrists, he took drugs that the most disturbed of men wouldn't take, and he was always trying to busy his thoughts with cases…

None of his attempts mattered. John Watson was invariably behind his closed lids, tormenting him with his sincere smile, his blonde hair and the bright irises — which became dark when dominated by pleasure and lust.

For that, Sherlock made that decision. For that, he was there, with one of his foot already hovering over the thin air. He could not deal with another day without John by his side. It was driving him crazier by the second, to a point where it wasn't viable to continue living.

For the last time, he took a deep breath. Sherlock concentrated his body weight to the front, his arms open and his trench coat flying with the strength of the wind as he fell.

The picture of John laughing and running to hug him, missing Sherlock so badly that the feeling irradiated from his small body, was the last thing Sherlock saw before reaching the ground, the pain of the concrete against his nerves barely being felt as Watson's arms encircled him.

—**SH—**

Mycroft arrived at the flat with his eyes closing at its own will, tiresome and exhaustion flooding not only his body, but also his soul. His cellphone's battery was dead — a negligence that rarely happened — abandoned on the bottom of his suitcase, which he put on the side of the door.

Despite of his full day, any fatigue he was feeling disappeared when he took sight of Gregory sitting on Sherlock's armchair, a serious and furious expression on his face, his body tense and hands together in front of his lips.

"Where were you?", he asked in a barely audible voice.

"… Working…?", Mycroft answered, insecure.

"Ok.", the policeman got up, standing face to face with his husband, still angered, "So, darling, any special reason for you to NOT PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE?", he screamed mid-sentence with all the potency he was able to gather.

"The battery died, and I left the charger at home.", Mycroft calmly explained, though the panic began to rise in his chest, "What happened, Gregory?"

Lestrade faced Holmes for a few moments more before his whole body shook and he fell into his husband's arms. He sank his face into the expensive clothe of the dark suit and cried woefully, hiccuping loudly and hugging Mycroft so tightly that it was as if he meant to fuse their bodies.

"Gregory, my love", Holmes whispered, hugging Lestrade back and caressing his grey hair, "What happened?", he asked again.

For a few minutes more, Gregory just stayed there, crying until he spent all of his tears stock. By the time he calmed down enough to regain some control over himself, Lestrade loosened the fingers that so hardly gripped the lapel of Mycroft's jacket, and pointed with his head to a music stand that Sherlock owned.

Hesitantly, Holmes disentangled from his partner's arms and slowly walked to where he was indicated. There, a single paper rested, filled with variated music notes, words on the borders and a title that had been risked and rewritten several times. It was pinned with a plastic peg, its tips moving with the wind that came from the open window. Mycroft took the sheet, holding it with the tip of his fingers, reading it note by note — he never had much of a facility with music, and he had even less now, with terror and panic filling his veins.

The definitive title to the song — the only sequence of words that wasn't crossed — seemed to be "_Pardonnez-moi"_. The melody was sad, slow, with various rests and long notes. However, as close as it got to the end, more complex it became. More desperate, with no logical sequence of notes, appearing to be played and composed randomly.

Mycroft turned the paper to check if there was more, and found a text written in a thin and inclined calligraphy — his brother's calligraphy. The pen utilized had been pressed to the page almost to the point of trespassing it and there were marks of dry tears, wrinkling the sheet and smudging the words at some points. The politician took long minutes to read the note — they took an eternity to Gregory, who anxiously awaited for his husband — the pain growing in his chest at each read word, making his knees give up when he finally got to the end. It was now Mycroft's tears smudging the paper, being shed copiously, his fingers pressing his brother's letter against his chest, kneading it.

"_Dear brother,_

_ This is my note. It's what people do, don't they — leave a note?_

_ I want you to know it isn't, in any way, your fault. Neither Lestrade's, or Molly's, or Ms. Hudson's, or anyone that loved me during all this time — and I'm very thankful for that. The fault of what I'm about to do falls entirely in James Moriarty's shoulders. He took away from me one of the most essentials things a person needs to live: Someone who loves, comprehends and tolerates you._

_ Don't get me wrong, brother. I know you too play this part. But it is not the same thing. It is as if someone took G..._Lestrade_ away from you, without even giving you a chance to say goodbye. Imagine having to see him every night after that, and didn't being able to touch him or help him._

_ That hurts, brother of mine. It hurts more than I can bear. After all, you were right: Caring is not an advantage. And love is the biggest of disadvantages. So I hope you forgive me for not being able to avoid this feeling. I also hope mommy, father, and whoever else that receive this news forgive me._

_ It wasn't in one night I took this decision, know that also. But I need to get back to John — hopefully forever._

_ By the time you read this, I will no longer be in this world. I will already be in John's arms, or searching for them. Therefore, I have no shame in admitting I love everyone who tried to help me in the course of these two years. Including Lestrade, although I am not sure he will believe my words._

_ Lestrade, take care of Mycroft. He will need you now more than ever. Be there for him in the way John could not be for me, and stop him for doing the same as I. I trust my brother in your hands._

_ Goodbye. Until the other side._

_ With love,_

_Sherlock Holmes._

_ P.S.: Don't let Anderson touch my things."_

_**The end.**_


End file.
